Possibility
by Got Tea
Summary: Early on Saturday morning the telephone rings. Grace is less than enthused, Boyd is filled with mischief... Challenge response. Happy New Year 2020. xxx


**A little late, this is my Christmas offering combined with the "London Challenge" set between myself, Joodiff, missDuncan, and Stargate Lover Steph. The prompt was as follows: One of them overhears something in a coffee shop. Must include a star, a bus, a bicycle, a tree and something silver. Setting between seasons 4-7, minimum word count 1,500, no maximum word count. I have recycled an old (old!) story into the prompt, otherwise it probably would never have left my drafts folder. I hope you enjoy. **

**Thanks to Joodiff for the speedy beta. **

**Happy New Year, all. xxx**

* * *

**Possibility**

**…**

"_What_?" Grace sounds half-asleep, noticeably unfocused, and most definitely very grumpy as she answers the phone, but the unusual, decidedly dishevelled nature of her voice does nothing to put Boyd off, instead it only invites curiosity, a remarkably healthy dose of mischief, and a wish that he could see her at this very moment, instead of just hearing her. It's a desire that he doesn't bother to repress, instead closing his eyes briefly as he lets his imagination run wild.

"Good morning, Grace," he says to her, tone perfectly polite.

"_What_?" is the repeated response, this time at considerably higher volume and with considerably less patience.

Boyd grins to himself, he really can't help it. It's just far too easy, and far, far too enjoyable.

"You're very grumpy when you've just woken up, aren't you?" he observes mildly.

"Boyd…" It's a warning, delivered more as a growl than anything else, one he brushes off easily and without a thought.

And it's that streak of mischief, that devil still sitting firmly on his shoulder and goading him into all this that makes him utter a teasing, "Grace…" in response.

"You have three seconds," she informs him waspishly, "to start talking sensibly. Otherwise I'm hanging up on you and pretending this was just a nightmare."

He laughs at her, because there's really no other response he can give, and then there's a click as the line goes dead.

"It's the middle of the night," is the response he gets after the eleven – assuredly deliberate, he knows – rings he waits patiently through.

He doesn't bother arguing – he knows damn well what time it is, after all. "Get up," he tells her, utterly business-like. "We have somewhere to be. I'll pick you up in half an hour – be ready. Dress warmly."

And this time it is he who hangs up the phone.

…

Only _he_ would do this to her, thinks Grace darkly. She's tempted to burrow back under the bed covers and stay there, ignoring his imperious summons, but when he arrives – and she knows damn well he _will_ arrive – the small matter of her locked and bolted front door won't prevent him from entering her house if he's in just _that_ sort of mood. Which he clearly _is_.

With resignation and a heavy sigh, she sits up and twists, setting her feet firmly on the floor.

Apparently it's time to greet the new day.

…

When Boyd arrives at her house she's dressed and waiting, just as she promised, but in the darkness of night and the gloom of the single lamp she has lit, the shadows that cling to the form-fitting jeans and sweater she is wearing almost make him forget his reason for being here. Almost make him reach out and catch hold of her, his body longing to pin hers up against the wall.

He wonders what her reaction would be, what she would do if his hands started to roam, if he kissed her with the intent of showing her exactly how he feels about her, what she does to him, what she makes him feel. He wonders if she would return the sentiment, if the fierce passion that burns through him is something she knows as well.

She must, he thinks. Otherwise how else can the hard work they have both put in during the last few weeks and months, intent as they are on repairing their friendship, be explained? Lunches and quick breaks, even the occasional dinner; time spent talking and laughing. Visiting crimes scenes and victims and witnesses together, without the rest of their team. That's all perfectly ordinary, friendly. But… it's gone beyond that now, he knows. He may not be able to pinpoint the exact moment when things began to change, nor when he realised that something was different, but he knows that he's unlocked something inside himself, has finally allowed himself to look beyond the boundaries and excuses, and to see – really see – the stark truth before him.

Jeans, he muses. Jeans that reveal shapely legs her weekday wardrobe only ever hints at – he's going to be forever filling in the details in his mind now, he knows. That sweater too… dark blue, he thinks, though the lighting makes it hard to be completely sure. As well as it fits her, the only thought running through his mind is how it would feel to slowly peel it from her skin, to revel in the chance to discover what lies beneath it.

He wonders what she looked like as she answered the phone, has obsessed about it all the way here. Tousled hair, bleary eyes? Burrowed defensively under the covers, or sprawled untidily across the bed? Pyjamas or not? Fiery and angry, as her tone suggested, or simply sleepy and startled by the early morning call? He doesn't ask.

But he desperately wants to know.

"This better be worth it," Grace grumbles, tugging on her coat and hiding his view. His eyes catch hers, and he smiles, sees just a little softening in her expression as he offers an arm to escort her to his car.

"It will be. I promise."

…

He is nothing if not charming, and that has always been her downfall with him. That engaging, appealing grin of his that speaks of mischief and the exceptionally naughty little boy she's quite sure he must have been.

They've been driving for a while, and it's given her the chance to reflect. He looks at peace this morning, as though he's slept well and he's relaxed. Thoroughly relaxed, though, not just spent a day or two without all the stressors in his life constantly hounding him.

Wondering how he's managed it she turns her head and looks out of the window. There's not much to see. They've left the urban hive that is London and are travelling along unlit country roads. The day is approaching, but the pre-dawn light is only just barely beginning to creep forward out of the darkness, and the moon is still a crescent of stark silver beauty hanging low on the horizon.

Soon though, Boyd takes a swift turn and directs the car down a single-track path carved out between a host of tall, well established trees. Grace is about to ask where the hell they are when he pulls up in a small space clearly designed as a parking area but that is neither paved nor coated with tarmac. There's a series of sheds and a long, low building at one end, and across from them is a large expanse of what she thinks is a field, but can't quite tell in the gloom.

The engine cuts out, the interior light flickering on. "Come on," grins Boyd, his eyes gleaming at her. "You don't want to miss this."

It's startlingly cold outside, and Grace huddles deeper into her thick winter coat, pulls her scarf tighter around her neck and tries not to shiver. "Wait here," he tells her, when they are halfway between the car and the sheds.

Too bemused by him to reply, Grace somehow inexplicably finds herself doing exactly as he asks, and then, as he disappears from view, she is left standing alone in the middle of a remote field in the near darkness, miles from anywhere he might be tempted to call civilisation.

He's always been a little eccentric, she muses, watching the patterns her breath is making as it forms a thick cloud in front of her. Even for him though, this is… well, odd.

It's a bloody good job she trusts him.

Underneath her faithful, favourite winter boots the ground crunches, and when she looks down Grace can make out the prettiness of thickly frosted blades of grass that run away from her in every direction. The silence is welcoming, too. Wonderful, even. Born and brought up in a small, rural town far to the north of the bustling capital, with a childhood filled with riding horses and collecting hens' eggs, she's never really learned to do much more than tolerate the chaos of inner-city life.

A faint electric whine breaks through her reverie of hours spent practicing convincing Smokey the pony to carry her safely over the short course of jumps on her best friend's sprawling family farm. The whine grows and then out of the shadow, with the biggest, most boyish grin on his face she's seen in a long time, Boyd reappears, striding towards her with something square resting in his hands.

The air is turning faintly golden around them as he reaches her, and suddenly Grace understands what they are doing out here because, there, rolling along the frozen field, is the enormous yellow airplane he once deemed it suitable to park in her office.

With all the glee of a small boy on his birthday, Boyd begins to fiddle with the controls and, as she stands there and watches, the yellow plane makes its way across the field, gathering speed until suddenly it is airborne and climbing rapidly into the warm glow of the rising dawn.

Shell shocked doesn't really begin to describe how she feels, thinks Grace, her eyes tracking the plane as it zooms down the length of the field and banks right as it approaches the stand of trees the sun will eventually emerge from behind. Of all the things he might have dragged her out of bed for – mummified corpses and dismembered body parts included – this absolutely did not feature in any of her musings.

But when she looks at him, when she really studies him, the happiness and steadiness she finds there as he concentrates on what he is doing are almost overwhelming in their significance.

…

Despite the cold, it's a beautiful morning. Picturesque, even. Though the sun hasn't broken free of the horizon yet, the pinky-gold streaks rippling across the sky are stunning, and the thick frost that is clinging to every blade of grass, every leaf and every surface of the buildings to his right is gorgeous.

Not as gorgeous as she is though, observes Boyd, as he steals glances to his left where Grace is huddled inside her coat, eyes on the remote control aircraft as it swoops through the frigid sky around them.

There are no words between them, and he suspects that that is a good thing, because dragging her out of bed and all the way out here might possibly not have been the best idea he's ever had, but it was well intentioned, and at the time seemed like a good way to get her on her own, away from other people.

The question he wanted to ask her is firmly stuck at the back of his throat, so instead he takes comfort in the way she seems to be fascinated by the flight of the plane, and the beauty of the morning. After a while, as he steals another glance, Boyd finds himself caught by her blue gaze and the quick rise of a single eyebrow.

He's not ready, not yet.

Quickly he offers the controller to her, attempting to disguise his actions. The look he receives in response gives him no doubt regarding her thoughts on her ability to control his expensive toy.

"Trust me," he murmurs, stepping behind her and reaching around her body, placing his hands over hers to direct her fingers over the controls.

He's in trouble. He knows it immediately.

She smells incredible, that's the first thing to hit him. Faint traces of perfume and something else, possibly shower gel or shampoo, that combine together to fill his nostrils with an intoxicating scent.

She feels amazing, too. Warm and soft and real. He thinks his heart might actually stop. She's in his arms. She's _in his arms_.

Gradually, as he guides her, Grace relaxes, leaning back into his chest, her hands becoming steady and pliant, and eventually even a little bit adventurous and independent under his as together they direct the plane to fly loops of the field in the silent, emerging dawn.

It's perfect.

It is really, truly perfect.

Grace is silent, and that's fine by him. Boyd's carefully rehearsed speech is still failing him, so instead he simply stays where he is, his arms around her as they quietly fly the plane together.

…

It's quirky, the café. Quirky, yet somehow still delightfully old-fashioned. The counter is long and made of sturdy oak, the cakes on it chunky and mouth-wateringly traditional. Big mugs and mismatched tea pots are stacked on shelves behind the till, and a delicious aroma is wafting through from the kitchen, permeating throughout the comfortably warm room. Seated at a corner table with a view out into the village street, Grace watches intently as the world outside begins to wake up.

An elderly-looking gentleman rides past on a bicycle, a scruffy terrier perched in the front basket, its head up and eyes bright as it looks around as the pair travel. A bus rumbles slowly down the road, pausing to pick up a trio of women who have been standing chatting in the shelter, shopping bags in hand. They all seem to have a purpose, to know what they are doing.

Does she? The thought is still forming in its entirety, but it is lingering in the back of her mind, nagging.

Clear blue now dominates the sky, the air outside still frigid and the frost still clinging. When the batteries finally died and the plane coasted back to earth, landing gently before them, Boyd had suggested breakfast, and, frozen and hungry, Grace had readily agreed. Now, as they wait for their food to arrive, he's nipped off to the loo and she's left sitting waiting, her hands clasped around her mug of tea, slowly but surely thawing out.

The café is cosy, she muses, her eyes moving around. There's an old fireplace hung with tinsel, and beside it is a large fir tree, adorned with baubles, twinkly lights and a large silver star at the very top. Are there really only two weeks to go until Christmas, she asks herself, before mentally running through the checklist of things she's already done in preparation, looking for anything she might've missed, or still have outstanding. How on earth has it crept around so quickly again?

"Is that her, do you think, Mavis?" The woman from behind the till and the other who took their order are a few tables away, clearing dishes and tidying. She's not really paying attention, still gazing out of the window, but Grace can't help but overhear their conversation.

"Well he brought her here, and she's the only person he's ever come in with."

"I know that, but…"

"Anyway, what business if it of yours?"

"She's a lucky woman, that's all I can say. He's bloody handsome."

"Huh… not my type."

"She doesn't seem like his type."

"And how would you know Jane? Now get a move on, these tables won't sort themselves out. Stop bloody daydreaming. He's far too old for you anyway. "

Grace looks up, scans the room. There are two women sitting in the corner opposite her, and one man drinking coffee at the table by the door. No one else. Returning her gaze to the window she accidentally catches Jane's eye, sees the scarlet blush rise before the woman hurries away with her arms filled with dirty crockery.

What on earth?

"'Is that her, do you think?'" What on earth does that mean? And how would Mavis and Jane know anything about Boyd, or who he is and isn't acquainted with?

Dismissing the thought she looks up from her tea again, sensing the presence of the man in question just as he rounds the corner and ambles back towards her. Sensibly and comfortably dressed for the weekend, he still looks as handsome as he always does. Maybe more so. There's something she finds slightly seductive about the real Boyd, the one with the aura of power and authority stripped away from him. Relaxed and calm, but with a tiny hint that he's lacking surety in what he's doing. Whatever it is he hasn't said yet – and she can feel that there is something lurking there, just below the surface – she can't fathom, but still, he appears at ease and it's a welcome sight.

"Okay?" he asks, settling opposite her. The table is small and he's not, and when she feels his knee brush against hers beneath the dark green tablecloth, Grace feels her heartrate increase a notch, her breath catch in her throat. It's that intense warmth and excitement again, that same that she felt in the field when he stepped behind her and all but took her in his arms.

God, she's in trouble here.

What are his intentions she asks herself, because if they are merely friendly…

"Grace?"

She smiles at him, nods. "Warming up nicely," she confirms.

His face relaxes and that easy, open grin returns. "Good. I was afraid you would never speak to me again, after dragging you out into the wilds like that."

"I'm a country girl at heart, Boyd. I can handle a bit of weather."

He's saved from answering by the arrival of their breakfast and, starving, they both tuck in to the delicious food. It's all just a bit… awkward… otherwise.

"Mmm," is the satisfied sigh she hears from across the table when half his plate has vanished.

"Enjoying yourself?" she teases, as he continues to attack the remaining food.

"Absolutely," is the quick reply. "This place is fabulous. I knew as soon as I first came here that you would like it. And I'm not wrong, am I?"

Swallowing and reaching for her mug, Grace shakes her head. "No, you're not. This is delicious."

"There you are then, seems like good enough reason to trust me when I call to wake you, eh?" he smirks.

Pinning him with her stare, she offers astern, "Not _that_ early, thank you very much." They both know she doesn't mean it though.

"Need your beauty sleep, is it?" He's laughing at her, but that's okay. Grace doesn't mind. Not when the morning has been so good.

Choosing to ignore his last, she asks, "What happens now?"

Boyd swallows, wipes his mouth on his serviette. "What do you mean?" There's something in his gaze she can't quite interpret.

Grace doesn't dwell on it. She will find out, in the fullness of time, she's sure. "Where do we go from here? Back to London?"

"Oh. No. Well, there's a nice costal walk I thought we could take if you're up to it, and then dinner at a local pub before we head back. Unless you don't want to, or there's something else you need to do?"

He looks so earnest, so unsure of himself in that moment. It's really rather endearing.

Grace shakes her head, trusting her heart that it's the right thing to do. "I had no plans."

He looks relieved, that's the only way she can describe it. "Well then, okay. Good."

…

Boyd plucks up the courage as they are walking, getting the words out there between them. It's not as elegant a proposal as he had hoped for, but it's not a completely bumbling catastrophe either.

Nor is it the actual question he wanted to ask her.

Instead he makes a statement of it, and hopes that she understands the meaning behind it. Explains about the cottage in Dorset, how near the coast it is. Tells her about the open fire and the miles of scenic routes to be walked in each and every direction. And the nearby village with cosy cafés, and pubs that sell good, local beer and excellent food. She seems to like the idea. Even teases him about spending two whole weeks away from the capital in solitude.

She doesn't give him what he wants though.

And there's no way he can blame her.

Because it's his fault.

Is he a coward? Boyd asks himself as they continue to walk, sometimes talking sometimes not. After so many years they have perfected the art of companionable silence, as well as having the ability to talk about anything and everything.

Except, it seems, the one thing they really need to talk about.

Maybe he is a coward, Boyd tells himself gloomily. Maybe he's destined to be alone and lonely for the rest of his life.

He should just tell her, should just ask.

The dozens of disaster scenarios that fill his mind stop him, though. Every single time.

They come to a natural stop for a moment, gazing out across the beauty of the landscape before them, and Boyd steals a surreptitious look to the side. Her legs in those jeans… god, what he wouldn't give to run his hand up their length, to feel the curves of her flesh beneath his palm.

She is a temptress of the most seductive kind, and when he responds dryly to a comment she makes and she bursts into peals of genuine, unfiltered laughter, he thinks he's perhaps never heard a sound so sweet.

Jesus.

How did he get here, he wonders?

All the women who have practically fallen at his feet over the years, all the easy charm he's developed and cultivated, and he can't ask just one woman to take his hand and walk forward into the sunset with him.

One woman. The woman.

It's pathetic.

Worse than that, it's sad.

And he knows if he doesn't, if he can't, then he will spend the rest of his life alone.

Because after all this time, all these years, there's only her.

Only Grace.

…

Dinner is as low key and relaxed as the rest of the day has been, and as they leave the cosiness of the old-fashioned, traditional pub after a peaceful and delicious meal, Grace is happy.

All in all, it's been a great way to spend a Saturday.

Pulling her coat tighter around her and shoving her hands deeps into her pockets, she looks up at the sky and sees the stars shining brightly in the cloudless sky. It's a marvellous, she muses, how clear and beautiful the sky is away from the haze of the city. It reminds her of home, all those long years ago.

The Dorset coast is probably pretty similar…

Grace sighs internally at the thought, wandering over to the edge of the car park. Why must he leave her in a limbo of confused thoughts and tentative hope? Why couldn't he just ask and she answer?

Because it is always the way with them.

She would say yes, she knows she would.

But was he really going to ask, or was he telling her because he wants her to know he is trying to help himself? Because he knows, that as his friend, she cares?

That lingering doubt stops her from speaking up.

It's useless, she decides. He's as difficult and contrary and confusing as they come, and she really, _really_ doesn't know what he wants, or what he means.

Does she?

She should, because she's a psychologist, and bloody good one at that, but in this matter… one of the heart… her heart…

Resisting the urge to growl aloud at her difficulty in just dealing with the situation, Grace takes a deep breath instead.

Sharp, clear winter air. Fresh and refreshing.

"Grace?" His tone makes her instantly wary, though she doesn't show it. Continues to gaze serenely out over the clifftop. The sea is a pitch black void below them, but the sky… the sky is marvellous. As is the sound of crashing, tumbling waves far below them.

"Yes?"

"I'm… not a bad guy at heart. I mean well. I just… get frustrated, and then angry, and… I don't mean any of it."

Bless him, and his kind, gentle heart. He's so genuine beneath the cloak of power, and that's what originally drew her in, and then kept her by his side.

She looks to the side, smiles softly up at him. "I know that, Peter. I've always known that."

"Peter…" he echoes, and when she pauses and stares steadily at him, caught by the fact that she can't quite decipher the expression on his face and in his eyes.

"Something wrong?" she asks.

"Peter…" he repeats, still sounding something close to astonished.

"Yes," she replies, drawing the word out, not sure what's happening here.

He stops, turns to look down at her. "You never call me Peter," he tells her, and his face is still beautifully confused.

She doesn't, and with good reason. But it just… slipped out.

Damn.

Determined not to give anything away, Grace shrugs. "It's a nice name. It suits you. But if you prefer I just call you Boyd…"

He steps a tiny bit closer, shakes his head. "No."

Something is changing. Something is building in the air around them. She can feel it, and maybe he can, too. It's that moment, the one that only exists in romance novels and films.

The one where she has to jump, or wish for the rest of her life that she had.

"No," she agrees, any hesitancy slipping away. Maybe she has her answer after all, she thinks. Maybe, just maybe, she was wrong about the strength of his self-confidence.

After all, if she can't always properly read matters of her own heart, what's to say he's any better with his?

"No." He's staring at her, with such a focussed and powerful intensity that it's unnerving.

It's decision time; push forward with hope, or fall back in fear.

Hands on her hips, Grace stares up at him. "All right, what's going on? You're confusing me now."

He stares at her, his eyes dark and unfathomable. It feels like he is staring straight into her, and that's wonderful and chilling and incredible, but still, he says nothing.

"Peter…"

"I'm going to kiss you," he says abruptly. "And if you want to object, now is the time, but I really hope you don't because – "

He keeps talking, throwing words at her. Trying to make the situation better, trying to take away some of his obvious discomfort. He, of all people, keeps talking.

It's… crazy. Ridiculous, even, and Grace sighs, finds her patience with him is gone. It's been a long, rather strange day and she's tired of playing along with whatever game he's been slowly, steadily navigating his way through since he called her at the crack of dawn, yanking her out of her slumber.

It's far easier to take the matter out of his hands, so she does. She simply stands on tiptoe and leans in, cutting him off mid-sentence as she presses her lips gently to his.

Something shatters between them. Right there in that very moment, something breaks, shatters, crumbles. And what is left is quite honestly breath-taking in its simple, raw honesty.

They ease apart naturally, and at the stunned, staggered expression on his face she's genuinely tempted to laugh. She manages not to, just.

Words seem to fail him as he stares at her. "I…"

Now she does laugh, gently and sweetly as she smiles sunnily up at him. "You?"

He tries, but no words, no sounds form and in their absence all he can do is stare at her, quite clearly utterly astounded.

It's amusing, and quite satisfying really.

The time for tiptoeing around is over. Bluntly, she demands of him, "Now, are you going to ask me the question this entire day has been orchestrated around?"

Boyd clears his throat, makes an attempt to speaks. Fails.

Grace stands very still in front of him. Raises an eyebrow. Folds her arms when the silence continues. Narrows her eyes at him when he seems to choke on the first word.

"Will you come to Dorset with me?" The words are spit out so fast that they run together, become near-unintelligible, but Grace feels her heart tighten in her chest.

"Yes," she says, keeping it simple.

Boyd draws a quick, sharp breath, and Grace clearly sees the flicker of emotion in his eyes. The dawning of possibility.

"I think," she tells him softly, one hand reaching out to rest against his chest, "that we should just 'see what happens', as the old saying goes. I think it's about time, don't you?"

Boyd takes her hands in his, stares down at her, and in his eyes she can see so much; pain, confusion, happiness. Hope. "Really?"

Grace smiles up at him, her heart feeling lighter, warmer. "Really," she tells him, and then she kisses him again.

It's a step in the right direction. The rest… is definitely a possibility.


End file.
